


Soy Tuyo

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, But also, M/M, Oral Sex, Shakira is mentioned, might rot your teeth tbh, no d/s wow can you believe it? from me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: Rumors abound that Piqué and Shakira might be divorcing. They're not completely unfounded and Piqué has no one to turn to but Messi.





	Soy Tuyo

**October 2017.**

Leo hears the news on television and it makes him ache. Not a sharp pain, but a harsh throb, deep in his bones, that one he can’t quite get used to.

And then he starts paying attention, it’s easy when you’re not a big talker. But Piqué is, and he’s gone quieter. Will still crack that big grin when called upon, will still laugh too loudly in the locker room, but Leo can see the pain in his shoulders, can hear it on the edges of his laughs. He hasn’t looked Leo in the eye in days; they’re both used him to talking first.

“Geri?” says Leo, in the locker room before the Atleti game.

“Yeah?” He immediately turns around. He’s got pink around his eyes, his lips are a shade off.

Leo chickens out and mutters something about Atleti’s midfield. Piqué hangs on his every word anyway, can’t read Leo’s thoughts just yet. But it could kill Leo the way Piqué looks at him sometimes. Pure adoration, even after all these years. It makes Leo shy, makes him fiddle with his hands and shuffle his feet. If he meets his eyes accidentally, he feels his stomach jolt.

“How d’you feel?” Leo asks when he’s finished his rambling.

“What do you mean?” Piqué says sharply.

“You know. Your body and all.”

“Oh. Fine,” he mumbles.

“Good.” Leo sighs, stretching, hating himself. “Good.” 

*

He loses Piqué after the game, they haven’t been given instructions except “we paid for the fucking hotel, use it, will you?” Which many of them have taken to mean rechristening the sheets with  _madrileñas_.

At 12:45 he gets the text:  _I’m outside_ , and at 12:47 there’s a knock on the door. He opens it hurriedly, forgetting his tousled hair and his bare chest and the state of his room. Piqué envelops Leo in a hug as soon as the door is open. He’s definitely drunk, but he smells mostly like himself, overwhelming.

“Ah, come in, come on.”

“Lost the key to my room.”

“Uh-huh. Sit down, man, relax. Where’d you go?”

“Just a bar.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Don’t remember the name,” Piqué says. “It was okay. Sorry, man, I lost you.”

“No, it’s fine, I was in the hot tub for ages. How was it?”

“Good, yeah. Actually, Sergio Ramos showed me around.”

“Fuck off! You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” Piqué says indignantly. “He misses you, by the way.”

“Sure.”

Piqué scoffs. “Whatever. He told me to tell you he…” Piqué pauses, as if trying to remember. “…he misses watching your ass bounce in the Argentina colors,  _that’s_  what he told me to say.”

Leo is speechless, even though he  _knows_  Piqué is joking. Right?

“What?! Well, it wouldn’t have been in Barcelona colors, would it? The guy’s fuckin’  _obsessed_  with Real Madrid.”

“Shut the fuck up,  _borracho_ ,” Leo cries, pushing Piqué in his chair. Piqué grabs him and pulls him onto his lap so they’re jostling awkwardly on this office chair. After a few seconds, they’re both panting.

“Mercy, mercy,” Piqué says. “I’m drunk.”

“No kidding,  _imbécil_ ,” Leo laughs. His ass is dangerously close to Piqué’s crotch. He clambers off, overheated. “Did he really say that?”

Piqué laughs, throwing his head back, big body slumped in the chair. He readjusts, grinning wickedly. “Do you really want to know?”

“You fucking  _asshole_ ,” Leo mutters, jumping onto the bed, body still facing Piqué. Entertained.

Piqué gets up, shrugs like he doesn’t care, but can’t keep a smile off the corners of his lips. “Well. He did.” He crawls onto the bed and, without permission, Leo’s stomach drops. 

His breath is coming faster now and he doesn’t want Piqué to hear, so he says, mindlessly, “Geri, how’s things? With… you know.”

Piqué freezes almost comically. “With what?” he says, an edge in his voice. 

Leo gulps. “With, um. Shaki. You know.” He doesn’t often say her name, even though they’ve met several times, had dinner together, been to each other’s houses.

Piqué's gaze drops and Leo’s sorry he said anything. But he won’t back down. Who else is Piqué going to talk to about this? His shoulders lift almost imperceptibly. “Don’t know what I did.” Leo’s not sure if he heard right. Piqué wipes his nose and Leo hasn’t seen him cry since they were kids. Two minutes ago, he was laughing and Leo was on his lap. But then he lifts his head and Leo can see he’s not crying, just looks like he’s shocked and he’s been hurt. Like Leo punched him in the gut.

“Fuck, man, I’m sorry,” Leo hears himself saying. He’s the one who’s sober, but he’s the one who can’t control the words out of his mouth. “I didn’t… I don’t…"

Piqué looks like he’s trying to decide what to say. “It’s not your fault. I, uh…” He’s gesturing wildly with his hands. “We have sex with other people. We’ve always had sex with other people. That’s what we…” he shrugs again, at a loss for the words. “We have sex with each other, sometimes, sure, we’ve got two kids!” He laughs, a gasping laugh that Leo rarely hears. “We have two beautiful boys that mean the world to both of us and need  _parents_  and – don’t get me wrong, man. I  _love_  having sex with her. But she’s always somewhere else and I’m – well, you know our lives, away half the time too, and it’s – it’s easier this way, you know?” Leo nods, aches for him. “So I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all. I keep hoping it’ll blow over. Like who else? Who else could she... would she…” And Leo laughs at his arrogance, and Piqué dissolves into laughter too. “I’m sorry, man, I …I’m drunk and I came into your room, I—" 

“No, no,” Leo cuts him off. “I invited you. I mean, I—I wanted you here.”

Piqué smiles sadly, the adoration and affection and admiration crinkling his eyes. Leo blushes this time, down to his neck, overwhelmed. Piqué glances down at his chest and Leo catches him looking. A jolt goes through Leo’s body like an electric shock. Piqué leans forward and everything happens in slow motion. He holds Leo’s cheek in his hand and guides their faces together. The kiss is gentle, which of  _course_ it is, they take their time, neither wanting to impose, until suddenly Leo pushes hard against his lips and Piqué snickers, grips his shoulders tight, till it hurts. Leo shakes him off and drapes his arms around Piqué’s neck, and Piqué grunts and pushes him onto the bed. Leo lands, flushed, breathless, staring up at him, refusing to break eye contact.

Piqué stares back, his brow furrowed, he almost looks confused, and Leo knows he wants to call it off. Leo brings his knees to his chest, to get up, to apologize, to tell him he knows better, that this absolutely isn’t how Piqué should be coping. But Piqué leans down and holds his hips, and presses a kiss into those hairs just below his navel. Looks up and smiles, that huge fucking smile, and kisses gently, up his stomach, slowly, savoring, and Leo’s breath is coming so fast now, Piqué can hear his heart pounding when he gets up to the middle of his chest and delights. Brushes his stubble against the middle of Leo’s chest affectionately until he looks up. Piqué laughs, like he’s been caught doing something, and presses a kiss into the middle of his chest. “Leo,” he murmurs, almost to himself, flicking Leo’s nipple with his tongue. Leo’s breath catches, his eyes close, he can’t move— Piqué’s mouth closes around his nipple, and the heat makes him sensitive, he makes an embarrassing whimpery noise as Piqué grazes his teeth over the nub.

Piqué leans up and whispers in his ear, “I want to fuck you.” Leo whimpers, deep in his throat, panting, arching up. Piqué kisses his Adam’s apple, then down his neck, thoroughly, voraciously, with his teeth. “I’ve wanted…” he murmurs, and Leo starts.

“What?”  
  
Piqué laughs, chuckles into his neck. “Nothing. I want.. I want to fuck you, Leo. Can I?”

Leo’s watching Piqué, who stops and meets his eyes. “Please,” says Piqué. “Will you let me?”

His head is swimming. Piqué’s pupils are blown out. He looks like he looks on the pitch sometimes – determined, desperate, like he has a job to do. Part of Leo wants to deny him, just to see how he’d react. “Y-yeah,” he mumbles. Leo knows exactly what he is supposed to do. His stomach flutters anyway. “Yes, yeah, please, yes,” he says, as Piqué collapses on top of him in relief, both of them delirious with happiness and neither able to admit it.

Piqué’s weight vanishes and Leo opens his eyes, realizes he’s relaxed all the way down to his bones. Like he’s just played a hard match or stepped out of a hot tub (which, he has). He watches Piqué dim the lights, slip off his shirt with a sly backwards glance, and disappear into the bathroom. He exhales loudly, throws an arm over his face but can’t hide his grin. He’s uncharacteristically patient, like some switch has been flipped, but his heart still races in his chest, giving him away.

Piqué emerges from the bathroom, with a wicked grin, naked. Leo half sits up, even as his face embarrassingly overheats, and without a word Piqué helps him out of his joggers. He’s half-hard and Piqué lowers his head to remedy that, licking his cock slowly, lovingly from base to tip. Leo’s panting, he lies back and makes this noise in the back of his throat. Piqué chuckles and his mouth disappears just for a minute. Leo lifts his head up and Piqué is grinning, spreading lube onto his – god, they’re enormous – fingers. His heart speeds up even further, he arches back and Piqué laughs. “What?" 

“Big… fucking fingers, man.” He’s breathless. He doesn’t care anymore.

“Yeah, sorry,” Piqué says in a careless tone, and then, more sincere, “I’ll go slow."

He slides one finger in and Leo has promised himself not to make a noise (not  _yet_ ), but it’s… new, it’s different. It hurts. Piqué probes deeper, searching, without taking his eyes off of Leo, and the pleasure spikes in his core. “Fuck,” he murmurs, and Piqué’s grinning wolfishly as he starts to rut against the finger, breathing loudly, their sounds filling the room. “Damn, Geri…"

But before he can get used to it, Piqué adds another finger. Leo cries out in shock. Piqué’s fingers are so wet, making obscene noises inside him, and, just as Leo closes his eyes, Piqué wraps his lips around the head of Leo’s cock and Leo convulses. Piqué keeps fingering him with one hand, the other one gently holds the base of his cock, the great hot velvet of his mouth overwhelming. Piqué decides to put on a show and Leo dares to look down: he is worshipping Leo’s cock, licking all around the tip, sucking and kissing the head gently. Leo grunts, feels animalistic, running his nails through the short hairs of Piqué’s buzz cut. Piqué moans and it sends shockwaves through Leo.

“Fucking hell, Geri,” he groans, as Piqué’s fingers go deeper, deeper, never letting up, setting his insides abuzz. He’s much too good at this, Leo realizes absently. Piqué is going back to sucking his cock properly, tongue on the underside, starts to deep throat him, and Leo can’t take any more—

“Geri!” he cries. “Hey, Geri, stop!”

“Eh?” Piqué pulls off of his cock, a trail of saliva connected to his lips. Leo’ll never forget that image as long as he lives. Both panting, they stare at each other for just a second too long.

“I want… I want you to fuck me. I… I’m close, and – w-want to feel you inside me.”

Piqué stares at him, face unchanged. He leans forward and kisses Leo gently on the mouth. Leo wraps his arms around his neck, inhaling him, making the kiss more forceful and he’s rewarded by Piqué pushing him back against the pillows, sending them both into fits of giggles. “ _Amorcito_ ,” Piqué croons, his voice hoarse, “don’t worry. We have all the time in the world. You know I don’t get tired.”

“Oh, you don’t get tired?” Leo pushes him off and he lands awkwardly on the other pillow, laughing unabashedly. Leo sees his cock up close for the first time, big and thick and slightly purple from his exertions. But his relaxed body language – Leo almost believes him.

Piqué sighs from laughter, letting Leo look for as long as he can bear, and then sits up and puts a condom on fluidly, making sure to add more lube. “Can I fuck you right here?” he says. The lights are on.

Leo stutters. “Of c—yes.”

Piqué grins and Leo bounds up. Piqué manages to get him back where he wants him, and this time it’s his cock he eases inside of Leo. It’s tight. Leo does cry out this time, his eyes closed, but trying to push himself farther onto Piqué’s dick like the masochist he might just be.

Piqué’s grunting, trying to go slow, but trembling now, finally giving way. “You’re doing so well,” he pants. “You look so – fucking – good on my cock,” he says with each thrust. “How’s that feel?”

“Better,” Leo pants. Piqué pulls almost all the way out and then slides in again, and it is easier, Leo’s grateful his cock is so wet, he closes his eyes and lets Piqué control him, hold his hips, grip his ass tight. Lets his body give and the friction is getting so …so right. Piqué is still murmuring, panting, watching his face when he opens his eyes.

“Fuck, Leo, I’ve wanted…ahh,” he groans with every thrust. “I’ve wanted this for so long, you know that? Wanted you. Fuck.” Leo can’t think. “Every time I watch your – sexy ass bounce,” he laughs. “Drives me – crazy.”

Leo grips his cock blindly, watching Piqué, so wrecked, so desperate –

“Yeah, touch it, fuck – just like that,” the big man breathes, gripping Leo hard. “So fucking good, I never thought…” And just like that he comes, without warning, falling forward, catching himself on his forearms. His chest is inches from Leo’s face. He pulls out, slowly, and rolls over. And he’s watching as Leo rubs and tugs, makes himself come thinking about how long he’s been making Piqué hard, how effortlessly. He looks over at Piqué just as he feels the arousal pool in his belly and makes sure Piqué can see his face when he comes, thick strands of it all over his hand.

“Fuck, Leo,” Piqué says, a few minutes later when they can talk again. “You were so good at that. Have you been fucked in the ass before?”

Leo hesitates. Shakes his head. And then, with a giggle, “I fucked Kun once though.”

Piqué laughs. “Well, I should’ve guessed that.”

“Wanted to come with you inside me,” Leo murmurs.

“Hmm? Awww,” Piqué waves it off. “I was going easy on you.”

“Were you?”

“I mean…” he hesitates. “I was. You gotta the first time. But wow.. I can’t believe you’ve never done that, you might’ve been the easiest virgin I’ve ever seen, actually.”

“Shut up, dickhead,” Leo tries to smack him, but Piqué fends him off, laughing.

“It’s a _good_ thing, dumbass,” Piqué says. "I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Leo is gazing at him, roles reversed, now he’s the one with the desire written on his face. He touches Piqué’s beard. “Well, it just gets easier, doesn’t it?”

Piqué grins wickedly, glancing pointedly down at Leo’s cock. “It does. And, you know, I meant it, Leo. It's whenever you want.  _Soy tuyo_.”


End file.
